


Oh What a Beautiful Morning

by muttthecowcat22



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergent AU, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grand Prix Final Banquet, M/M, Post-Banquet, episode 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muttthecowcat22/pseuds/muttthecowcat22
Summary: Was Viktor Nikiforov sleeping in the armchair in Yuuri’s room?This was still no reason to panic.  There had to be an explanation.   Yuuri looked at the man again.  Maybe, the man was a mirage – no, that wouldn’t make any sense.  Maybe, he was a hallucination.  Yes, a hallucination, that would make sense.  Yuuri had never hallucinated before, he didn’t think, but that was the only possible explanation for anyone who looked remotely like Viktor Nikiforov to be in his room.-or- The morning after the Grand Prix Final banquet in Sochi, panic ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title does come from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical "Oklahoma"

Yuuri roused from his sleep.  For some reason, he didn’t quite know why, he could not seem to open his eyes.  The sheets felt soft.  His body, more specifically his head and stomach, felt . . . not good.

Not good.

Slowly, very slowly, he managed to crack his eyelids open.  The blurry, slightly spinning, too white ceiling stared back at him.  Blinded, he shut his eyes again, head pounding.  He lay there for a few more moments, he didn’t really know how long, before he realized that he had no idea where he was.

He had no idea where he was.  Not good.

Okay, there was no need to panic.  He could just calmly, very calmly, trace back through his memories to figure this out.

He was in a bed.  Yes, a bed.  _I am in a hotel room_ , his brain supplied.  Yes, he remembered checking in at the lobby of the hotel. _I am in a hotel in Russia._   For some reason, he remembered people speaking a different language and knowing that it was Russian.  _Celestino is with me, . . . just across the hall._   He remembered helping Celestino carry his luggage into his room.

Okay, so there really was no reason to panic, so long as he knew where he was and someone that he knew was with him.  He was safe.  No reason to panic at all.  But . . . he felt like he was forgetting something.  A bad something. 

Best not to think too much about it, he decided.  If it was that bad, he couldn’t say that he wanted to remember it.

What next?  Glasses.  He needed his glasses.  With his eyes still closed, Yuuri reached over to the bedside table to feel around for his glasses and . . . there they were, because, where else would they be?  Why did he have the feeling that he had lost them?

His hand also bumped into what felt like a cup.  Only then did Yuuri try to swallow, the sides of his throat scraping against each other.  His mouth parched and burned.  He shoved his glasses on his face and sat up – too quickly, he realized belatedly.  The room spun around him, and his stomach felt even more not good.  Really not good.  He gripped his arms around his middle until the spinning subsided once more. 

He looked towards the bedside table to spot a glass of fresh, clear water.

Should he attempt to run to the bathroom before his stomach flipped again, or should he drink the water? 

Drink the water.  Definitely.  He reached over and began to gulp it down.  As the water cooled his chest, he realized that his stomach handled it surprisingly well.  It was a good thing that he had remembered to set a glass of water by his bed that night.  Except, he didn’t remember doing that at all.

Once he had drained the glass, Yuuri’s eyes adjusted just slightly to the light, allowing him to focus on other pressing matters. In addition to feeling not good, he also felt sticky, more specifically, sweaty.  He looked down to find that he was wearing a white button-down shirt, not that many of the buttons were actually fastened.  The rough material uncomfortably scratched his too hot, sticky skin.  His fingers moved sluggishly, leaden, while he attempted to undo the remaining buttons.  Once he had slipped off the shirt, he realized that, for some other reason that he could not remember, he wasn’t wearing pants, just his boxer briefs.  Okay.  That was fine.  Normally, he slept in actual pajamas, but that was fine.

Now what?  He wanted a shower.  Yes, a shower, and if his stomach flipped again, he would be in the bathroom anyway.  This was a great idea.  Now, he just needed to walk to the bathroom, and to do that he needed to get out of the bed.  Get out of the bed.  He could do that, but – how to move his legs?  They throbbed as it was, lying unused under the covers.

Yuuri tentatively tried pulling one leg out from under the sheets.  He gripped his back with one hand when a deep throbbing pain radiated up his leg and into his spine.  Both arms throbbed slightly as well.  What had he done that night?  Every muscle in his body felt exhausted, overused, and burning.  It occurred to him that he had a rather large chunk of his memory missing, but he could worry about that later.

He still wanted a shower.  Slowly, very slowly, Yuuri inched to the edge of the bed and began to climb out.  Why did everything in his room have to be so white?  He finally pushed himself onto his feet, swaying slightly.  His eyes flitted around the room, attempting to light on any object that wasn’t a searing shade of white.  They finally landed on the armchair across the room, the very not-white very dull-red-faded-to-pink armchair. 

But, more specifically, his eyes landed on the figure lying in the armchair, the figure that was a person.  There was a person lying in the armchair.  There was another person in his room lying in the armchair. . . !?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Okay, once again, there was no need to panic.  Absolutely, no need to panic.  There had to be a rational explanation as to why another person was currently lying in the armchair in his room.

Maybe it was Celestino.  That would make sense.  Yuuri slowly dragged his legs a few steps closer to the armchair and peered at the person.  Definitely not Celestino: his hair would have been hanging over the edge of the chair.  This person had short hair.

Still, no need to panic.  The person was not moving, probably asleep – or dead – hopefully asleep.  Yuuri moved closer still.  The person’s shoes rested on the floor just to the side of the footstool, one sitting upright, the other turned over.  Men’s shoes.  So the person was a man, maybe?  Yuuri did not know if this revelation was a good or bad thing.  But really, there was only one way for this situation to progress: very badly.

But still, there was no reason to panic, none at all.

The person’s – the man’s feet hung over the end of the footstool.  They were covered with brown and red polka-dotted socks.  Hmm, interesting.  Yuuri looked down to his own feet.  He was wearing socks as well, white socks.  Just white socks and underwear.  Just fine.

In contrast, the man appeared to be wearing black slacks and a white button-down shirt, similar to the one that Yuuri had so efficiently removed, except that most of the buttons seemed to be fastened and the expensive-looking fabric shone in the early morning light streaming in from the window.  Yuuri rubbed his eyes several times, trying to relieve the throbbing behind them.

The man’s chest moved regularly, up and down.  He was breathing.  So, he wasn’t dead.  That was a good thing, right?  He appeared to be lying half on his stomach and half on his side, his head resting in the bottom of the armchair and his back curled to one side.  Several strands of gray hair concealed half of the man’s face.

Odd, the man’s hair looked suspiciously similar to Viktor Nikiforov’s hair.  Even more strange, the man’s face – no, the entire man looked suspiciously similar to Viktor Nikiforov in general.

Was Viktor Nikiforov sleeping in Yuuri’s room? . . . !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This was still no reason to panic.  There had to be an explanation.   Yuuri looked at the man again.  Maybe, the man was a mirage – no, that wouldn’t make any sense; Yuuri wasn’t in a desert.  Maybe, he was a hallucination.  Yes, a hallucination, that would make sense.  Yuuri had never hallucinated before, he didn’t think, but that was the only possible explanation for anyone who looked remotely like Viktor Nikiforov to be in his room. 

The man looked so real, though.  Yuuri’s eyes landed again on the red polka-dot socks.  Yes, this man was definitely a hallucination; the real Viktor Nikiforov would never wear red polka-dot socks. He would wear . . . green silk socks instead.  Yes, Yuuri had always imagined Viktor Nikiforov wearing forest green silk socks; not red polka-dotted ones or plain white ones like Yuuri’s own.  Viktor Nikiforov was much too sophisticated for that.

This _hallucination_ of Viktor Nikiforov, however, appeared significantly more . . . rumpled, for lack of a better word, than the real one, and lonely, curled into the chair, arms pulled in close, without a blanket.  Even if he wasn’t real, Yuuri felt slightly bad for him.  The air in the room felt quite chilly, after all.  Yuuri shuffled back to his bed slowly – he could do this – and pulled the top blanket off the sheets.  A blanket.  Pillows go with blankets.  Yuuri grabbed his own pillow but immediately smelled the sweat on it and exchanged it for another.

Slowly, straining to remain upright with the added weight of the blanket and pillow, he shuffled back towards the hallucination.  He lightly draped the blanket over the hallucination’s legs and torso, not quite covering his polka-dotted feet.  Now to get the pillow under his head.

Yuuri hesitated, wondering if he would wake the hallucination while attempting to lift his head.  Well, it was worth a shot.  This wasn’t real anyway.  Yuuri slowly slid his aching fingers underneath the silver head and lifted gently.  Wow, it felt so warm and heavy, so real.  Yuuri’s arm trembled beneath it.  The silver strands slid soft and smooth between his fingers.

Yuuri realized that he was probably lifting some other object in his room that had been merely blocked out by the hallucination.  Maybe it was a lamp.  Yes, a round, smooth lamp.  He had probably left it switched on throughout the night, which was why it was warm.  He slid the pillow under the head/lamp and gently removed his hands.

The hallucination moved.

Yuuri jumped back several feet before he tipped over onto the carpet, but the hallucination merely snuggled into his pillow and went still again.  Yuuri sighed in relief, then found himself smiling despite his throbbing headache.  The hallucination looked quite sweet, endearing really, snuggling in the blanket.  He wondered briefly if setting a warm lamp on a pillow could become a terrible fire hazard, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  At any rate, the hallucination looked much better wrapped in a pillow and blanket than alone and shivering.  He desperately wanted to touch the silver hair just one more time.  Surely, a not-real hallucination wouldn’t mind.  He would never get this close to the real Viktor Nikiforov.

Yuuri crawled slowly back to the chair once more, leaned half of his body over the armrest, and extended his right hand to gently brush the few strands of gray hair out of the man’s face.  The hair felt so soft.  It tempted him to bury his hand in the mass of soft gray, but he resisted, afraid to touch any more. 

Even the hallucination’s eyelashes were a light gray color.  Yuuri had never seen gray eyelashes before.  He brushed his index finger lightly through the lashes on the eye nearest him.  They felt so real; each lash ran smooth and firm beneath his finger.  He wondered if he was electrocuting himself on the wires in the lamp.  He could still move his arm; he must be okay, he thought, as he slowly began to remove his hand from the man’s face.

The eyelashes fluttered.

Yuuri froze.  Please don’t wake up.  Please don’t wake up.  Not with Yuuri literally leaning over him like a stalker.  He willed the man back to sleep with the power of his hazy mind, and . . . the man actually stilled again.  Yuuri sighed in relief once more, accidently puffing his breath over the man’s face and blowing the gray hair slightly more to the side.

The eyelashes fluttered again, then, terrifying slowly, they opened to reveal one blue eye.  Blue.  So, so blue.  Belatedly, Yuuri realized that the other blue eye had opened as well.  Two blue eyes.  They were the most colorful non-white objects that he had seen all day.  He couldn’t look away.  So, he just stared.  A hallucination couldn’t possibly care.  Right?

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri shot off the chair again and hit the bed behind him, his glasses falling halfway down his face.  The hallucination could talk?!

Yes, he could talk and apparently stretch his arms over his head and sit up in the armchair.

“Yuuri, where did you go?” the hallucination said a bit more loudly after he finished stretching.

Yuuri’s head pounded severely at the additional noise, bringing his hands to his ears.

“Oh – sorry,” the hallucination whispered.  The blue eyes stared at him once more.  “I forgot; I’ll be more quiet.  Umm . . .”  The blue eyes slowly drifted from Yuuri’s face down and . . . down and down, and then back up again.  A faint pink color rose just over the hallucination’s nose, spilling onto his cheeks and contrasting with the bright blue eyes.  So pretty.

Yuuri ripped his eyes away from the hallucination to look down himself.  Oh . . . he was still only wearing underwear and socks.

“Uh . . . sorry, sorry!  I was just going to take a shower and . . .” Yuuri realized that his voice sounded horribly parched, “. . . um, you can go back to sleep.  Sorry for disturbing you.”

Yuuri felt more stupid than he ever had in his entire life.  Nothing he said seemed to make sense after the fact.  The hallucination would see him for the wash-up that he was.  Why did he have to care so much about a hallucination’s opinion anyway?  . . . Because he had tried for so long to reach Viktor Nikiforov, to catch his attention and receive just one word of acknowledgement?  Instead, a hallucination of the same man faced him while he wore only his underwear.

The hallucination continued to stare at him with a small uneven smile on his lips.  Yuuri could slowly feel the temperature rising on his face in the uncomfortable silence.

Wait, had he been talking entirely in Japanese?  No wonder the hallucination was staring.  There was no way that he could speak Russian, though.  What language had the man used earlier?  English?  English.

Yuuri needed to speak English.  English.  English.  English.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a single word in English.  Hmm.

Still no need to panic.  He could do this.  He lived in a country for four years where next to no one spoke Japanese.  He could do this.  The hallucination’s blue eyes bored into him, so, so blue – so distracting.  Yuuri closed his own eyes to concentrate.

“Umm . . . I,” yes! English, “I can’t – I can’t speak – English – right now.”  Wow!  A full sentence.  Yuuri opened his eyes once more.

The hallucination’s smile had grown across his entire face.  Was it slightly . . . heart shaped?

“Come here,” the hallucination said, motioning for Yuuri to move closer.

Yuuri shuffled towards the chair, slowly, legs shaking from exhaustion and fear.  He drained the remainder of his mental strength attempting to remain stationary at the side of the chair even as the hallucination reached up to touch Yuuri’s hair.  Actually, he didn’t touch Yuuri’s hair; he grabbed something on Yuuri’s head, instead, and pulled until it _came off_.  This action, naturally, sent every throbbing muscle in Yuuri’s body into convulsions of fear.  Something had just come off of his head.  He kind-of needed all the parts of his head.  He continued to shake until he saw the baby blue tie in the hallucination’s hand, the only tie that Yuuri owned.  Why had it been on his head?

It was at this point that Yuuri remembered that, yes, he did indeed have a stomach, and that, yes, his stomach felt very not good.  In fact, it had felt very not good for a while and was, by that point, approaching levels of extremely not good.

Yuuri turned and bolted, or rather tumbled, to the bathroom and proceeded within the next few seconds to dump his entire glass of water along with a bucketful of pure stomach acid into the toilet.  Even when his stomach felt small and empty, he continued to gag, slumping down onto the shiny white floor.  Ugh, of course the floor was white – and the toilet and the sink and the shower curtain. 

He closed his eyes and willed himself to pass on to the afterlife or sink into the too white floor in the too white bathroom in the too white hotel.  Ugh.  Matters could only go downhill from there.

Maybe it was time to panic.  Yes, maybe it was finally time to panic.  He brought his shaking, throbbing hands up to his eyes and finally let tears fall down his nose onto the smooth tile floor beneath his cheek.

The shiny bathroom filled with his sobs and gags.  The sense of dread continued to assert itself in the back of his mind.  He tried desperately to ignore it.  It would be too much.  It already was too much.  He felt as if he really had hit rock bottom, or rather, rock hard white tile floor.  It couldn’t get any worse than that.

Except that it could.

“Yuuri?”  He cracked his eyes, and to his utter horror, there was the hallucination. It had followed him into the bathroom.

“Yuuri . . . Yuuri, are you okay?”  There was no way that Yuuri could speak at that point.  He couldn’t really move either.  So, he lay there on the floor, completely exhausted, willing this hallucination of none other than _Viktor Nikiforov_ to disappear into thin air and stop tormenting him with his failure. 

Yes, that was it, what he had been forgetting: his failure on the ice at the Grand Prix Final just the day before.  More tears pooled under his cheek.  His failure.  He had failed at the one thing he was good at, the one thing that made him valuable.  Why did he still feel like he was forgetting something?

He flinched weakly.  Something had pressed against his forehead.  It felt soft and slightly cool, but not cold.  A hand?  He cracked his stinging eyes.  The hallucination knelt just in front of him, one hand extending to Yuuri’s forehead, the other holding a refilled glass of pure, clear water.  Yuuri’s hand automatically extended towards that glass, but the hallucination pulled it back, just out of reach.

“Oh no, you don’t.  We need to sit you up first,” the man said.

Thirst burned down Yuuri’s mouth and throat with an incredible ferocity, spurring him to attempt to prop himself up with one arm.  When he had finally lifted his head clear off the tile, his hand slipped in his own pool of tears.  

Solid hands and arms caught him before he could hit the floor and slowly finished tilting him upright.  Yuuri’s eyes had closed again during his fall, but he felt the pressure of one of the hands resting on his shoulder, steadying him.  His thirst continued to burn, but his utterly spent body had no energy to do anything about it.  He gasped when the rim of the glass touched his lip and as it slowly tipped up until cool water flowed into his mouth.  He gulped it down greedily, savoring the cool soothing drop in temperature that ran inside his chest.  He wrapped both of his own hands around the glass and tipped it up until he had once more drained it completely.  It wasn’t enough.  He needed more water and slid his eyes open in order to find it.

The hallucination, he realized, had continued to brace his shoulder with one hand.  A few more buttons on his mostly buttoned shirt had come undone, silver hair falling over most of his face.

“I’m going to walk into the bedroom to find you something else to drink.  Okay?  Don’t move while I’m gone,” he said quietly.

The hand slowly lifted from Yuuri’s shoulder, and the hallucination disappeared through the doorway.  Yuuri remained, unmoving, with his back propped against the rim of the toilet.  He wondered how far his mind had deteriorated for him to be imagining the hallucination walking around, handing him anything he desired. 

Before long, the hallucination returned, holding a bottle half-full of red Gatorade.  Yuuri recognized it as the one that he had stuffed in his backpack before leaving Detroit.  This time, he found enough strength to actually hold his hand out for the bottle. 

Yuuri felt a little more strength returning to his arms and legs once he had drained the bottle.  He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard floor, and stared unashamedly back at the man in front of him and his blue, blue eyes.  He wasn’t real anyway.  What did it matter?

“Do you think you’re able to move now?” the hallucination said, “I can help you move back to bed; I think you need to rest a little more.”

“No,” Yuuri’s voice came out stronger than he intended, but he remembered wanting to do something in the bathroom.  Shower.  Yes, he had wanted to take a shower.

The hallucination’s warm expression faded. He leaned back from Yuuri, distancing himself, features distorted by what appeared to be a frown.  Was the hallucination sad?  Why?

“I – uh – I’m sorry.”  Yuuri didn’t know what he was apologizing for.  “I wanted to take a shower,” he explained.

“A shower?” Now the hallucination looked . . . concerned?  His silver eyebrows knit together.

Yuuri nodded his head.

“Are you sure you can stand long enough to take a shower?”

Yuuri nodded his head again, determined.

“. . . Okay.  Will you at least let me help you up?”

“Yes, please,” Yuuri answered.  He didn’t know how much a fake person could actually help him, though.

The warm expression returned to the hallucination’s face, eyes crinkling, and he reached out a hand to gently brush Yuuri’s sweaty hair from his eyes.  The man’s hand felt incredibly soft and cool against Yuuri’s fevered skin, and Yuuri found himself leaning into the touch.  The hand might have lingered a bit longer than necessary. Actually, Yuuri knew it did because he willed it to happen, and his thoughts must have translated into the hallucination.

The man moved Yuuri’s hands to his shoulders so that Yuuri could brace himself as the man pulled him to his feet by his waist.

Yuuri clung to the man’s shoulders in a death grip as the room spun around him for a few moments, but, just as quickly, the spinning subsided, and he was able to ease away from the support.

“Okay, Yuuri, look at me,” the hallucination said, as if Yuuri had done anything but stare at him since he had appeared, “if you need anything – if you fall or – or anything, just yell or call my name.  Okay, Yuuri?  I’ll be just in the other room.  Okay?”

“Okay.”  Yuuri answered, his voice still grainy and weak.  The hallucination vanished, closing the door behind him, and Yuuri was left alone in the bathroom.

He stumbled to the sink to find his toothpaste and attempted to brush away some of the stomach acid before he turned towards the shower.  He let the water run predominantly cold and shivered as he stepped into the spray.  It ran smooth and soothing over his scalp and down his back.

The hallucination had said to call his name if anything happened, but what was his name anyway?  Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to call him _Viktor_.  He had wanted to meet Viktor for so long, not a fake illusion of him.  Maybe, he should come up with a nickname for him?  The real Viktor’s coach used the name _Vitya_ quite often during interviews.  Vitya . . . it sounded too foreign, perhaps, for something that lived in Yuuri’s own mind.  _Vicchan,_ that sounded more like home.  Yes, Vicchan, it was his dog’s name after all.

Vicchan

Vicchan

_Vicchan_

That’s what he had forgotten.

Vicchan was dead.

As the water ran over his head, Yuuri cried without feeling his tears.  How could he have forgotten his own dog in exchange for some kind of cheap imitation of Viktor Nikiforov?  It was disgusting.  He was disgusting.  He had given up too much to skate and fail and, now, he could never get it back.

Yuuri felt sick.  He needed to get out of the shower.  He turned off the knobs and stumbled out, only to find that he had forgotten to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom.  He couldn’t care anymore, though.

He dried his reddened eyes with a towel, wrapped said towel around his waist, and moved towards the door.  Maybe he had actually burned down his room.  At that point, it was probably the only thing that hadn’t happened.  At least, he thought his mind was clear enough that the hallucination wouldn’t be around anymore to torment him.

Except that, when he stepped out of the bathroom, the hallucination had returned to sitting in the red chair by the window.  Yuuri stopped dead in his tracks.  Why was this happening?

“Ah, Yuuri, did the shower help?” the hallucination turned his head, “I . . .”  His voice trailed off completely.  A deep red bloomed across his cheeks, nose, even his ears.  He shook his head.

“Ah – I do believe you’re trying to kill me, Yuuri,” he said with that odd half smile again.

“W-Why would I do that?”  Yuuri replied before it occurred to him that, yes, perhaps they really were on fire after all.  If he burned down along with the hotel room, then so be it.  Nothing would prevent him from returning to sleep at this point.

Nothing, that is, except a rumpled, tired-looking hallucination of Viktor Nikiforov.

“That is one question I don’t have the answer to,” he said, “Why _are_ you doing this to me, Yuuri?”  The uneven smile appeared on his face again, hand resting on his chest over his heart, and Yuuri felt a strange something once more wash over him while watching that smile.  It was something about the way the hallucination looked less polished, softer, more in pieces than the real Viktor Nikiforov.

Yuuri could have gone back to sleep and ignored the hallucination until it disappeared, but it wouldn’t hurt to be nice.  Even, if the man in front of him wasn’t real, it wouldn’t hurt to be nice, would it?  Maybe it would make him feel better to do something nice.

“Maybe,” Yuuri offered, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose while he held his towel with one hand, “you should take a shower and lay back down too.”

The hallucination tipped his head to the side.  “Way to dodge the question, Yuuri.  I would like to take a shower, though, unfortunately, I don’t have a change of clothes, so there would be little point,” he said.

“I might have something you can put on,” Yuuri responded.  Was he actually offering clothes to Viktor Nikiforov?  No, no, just a hallucination.  He shuffled over to his suitcase, first pulling out his own pajamas before searching for something that the other man could wear.  The hallucination appeared to be several sizes larger than Yuuri, but Yuuri normally carried several pairs of oversized practice clothes with him to competitions.  He finally pulled out a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt that looked large enough to fit the man.  He attempted to toss them into the man’s lap, but the clothes landed miraculously several feet to the side of the chair.  Odd, Yuuri had on his glasses. He knew objectively that he was hungover pretty badly, but, maybe, he had been a little drunk this entire time too.  _What had he done the night before?_   He remembered walking into the banquet and not much else.  No wonder he was hallucinating.

The hallucination glided over to the clothes on the floor before Yuuri could shuffle to them.

“Thanks, Yuuri,” he said as he picked them up, his back facing Yuuri, “I – uh – I – yes, I guess I’ll go take that shower then.  But, before I go,” he turned around, “are you going back to sleep?”

Yuuri nodded his head warily.

“Okay,” said the hallucination, “when does your flight leave?”

Oh, how could Yuuri have been so stupid?  He couldn’t remember anything about his flight; it could have left already, leaving him stranded in this insanely white hotel.  He dropped to the floor again to rummage through his backpack.  When he finally procured his boarding pass, his eyes would not focus enough to read it, even with his glasses.  The other man had silently glided behind Yuuri to glance over his shoulder.  Yuuri shoved the ticket into his hand.

“Hmm, your flight doesn’t leave until fairly late tonight.  It’s still early morning, so you can sleep for a few more hours.  I’ll set an alarm when I finish showering,” the man said, handing the ticket back to Yuuri.

And with that, the hallucination glided towards the bathroom, pausing just before he entered to remind Yuuri to call for help if he needed it, then disappeared.

Yuuri slid into new underwear and pajamas, silently hoping that his hallucination would not reappear, but also slightly hoping that it would.  Its presence had become vaguely comforting.  He moved automatically towards the bed once again but stopped himself.  The other man had seemed so tired.  Maybe Yuuri should take the armchair this time and let the hallucination have the bed.

He flopped into the chair and curled up in the man’s abandoned pillow and blanket.  They were still warm and smelled faintly of the strong cologne the man must have been wearing.  A contented hum escaped from Yuuri’s throat.  His eyes involuntarily slid shut, and the whiteness of the room faded from around him.

A weight on his shoulder caused his eyes to flicker.

“Yuuri.”  A whisper.  “Hey, Yuuri, why are you asleep in the chair?”

The other man leaned over Yuuri; his eyes very close and very blue.  English came slowly once again.

“You.”  Yuuri tried to point at the man. “You – sleep – You sleep – in bed.”

“Ah, that’s very kind of you, Yuuri, but you need the bed more than I do, I can assure you.”

“No – you sleep in – bed.”  Yuuri felt irritated; he didn’t have enough strength to follow the conversation well.

“Hmm, how about we make a compromise?  I will sleep in the bed, but you must sleep in it with me?”  The man’s heart shaped smile had returned, but it was small, cautious.

Yuuri did not have the energy to argue anymore.  What did it matter anyway; it wasn’t real.  He _would_ enjoy the company.  He nodded his head almost imperceptibly forward, a blush spreading on his cheeks despite himself.

Immediately, he felt himself lifted off the chair.  Without the energy to struggle, he clung to the man for dear life before he found himself just as suddenly deposited on the bed.  His heart fluttered from the scare as the other man slipped into the bed as well, leaving quite a bit of space between them.  As his heartrate slowed, exhaustion gripped Yuuri again.

The bedsheets felt cold against his skin.  He shivered underneath them.  A few vestiges of warmth reached him from across the bed.  Surely the not-real man couldn’t mind if Yuuri shared some of his warmth.  He scooted towards the gray hair that he could barely distinguish from the sheets without his glasses.  When had he taken them off? 

He wrapped his arms around the man’s back in one fluid motion, burying his face into the man’s neck.  The man tensed, then relaxed underneath him.  Yuuri felt so warm, content.  Had he finally managed to light himself on fire?  Was he slowly burning to death?  Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Hmm – warm,” he muttered, rubbing his head into the warmth.  One of the man’s hands began to stoke his hair, light and soothing.

Just before the room faded from his consciousness, he heard the man whisper, “You really are trying to kill me, aren’t you, золотце моё?” as a cool hand rubbed circles on his back. 

“Sleep tight, Yuuri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> золотце моё - my gold  
>  (thanks rebcart for the correction)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The panic continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so incredibly sorry that this took over a month for me to update! I hope you forgive me!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos last chapter; I really appreciate them. I had so much fun writing this, so I hope you all enjoy it too :)

Yuuri’s chest slowly rose and fell as he slept.  Viktor had never imagined that something so simple could be beautiful.  A few strands of Yuuri’s plush hair tickled Viktor’s neck with every breath.  He ran his fingers through the dark hair, marveling at the thickness of it and the weight of Yuuri’s head on his chest.  Yuuri had slept for almost four hours, more than he had at any one time all night. 

Viktor wondered how much longer he would sleep.  Yuuri would probably have a headache when he woke up.  Viktor gently pried the warm arms off his chest and slid out of bed, carefully, so as not to disturb Yuuri.  He dug through his backpack to find the small bottle of ibuprofen tablets he always carried with him, and placed it on the bedside table.  He refilled the glass with water and placed it there as well before climbing back into bed and drifting asleep again next to Yuuri’s warmth.  Despite the constant interruptions in his sleep, it had been the most peaceful night he had experienced in a long time.

* * *

 

The next time Yuuri woke up, he knew exactly where he was.

His pillow felt like it was made of concrete.  How could his headache have possibly gotten worse? His skull throbbed against the back of the pillow.  It shouldn’t be possible, he thought.  He desired to lift his head off of the concrete pillow, but the remainder of his body couldn’t be convinced to move.  It felt too comfortable under the covers compared to the cold hotel room air.  Plus, some kind of warm weight rested on his stomach, pinning him in place.

Well, at least he knew where he was.  Yes, he was in a hotel room in Sochi, Russia, an incredibly white hotel room, which was why he had yet to open his eyes.  His head throbbed particularly painfully.  He was hungover in a hotel room in Sochi, Russia.  His memories of the previous night still evaded him, for the most part.  He had somehow returned to his room from the banquet, gotten up at least once, sick to his stomach, and fallen asleep hugging a hallucination of Viktor Nikiforov.

Wait. What?

That didn’t make any sense.

That made absolutely no sense at all.  Why did he think that?  Yuuri distinctly remembered being lifted off the bathroom floor; he had touched the man.  That hadn’t been a hallucination.  It couldn’t be.  Whoever had been in Yuuri’s room that morning, Viktor Nikiforov or not, was absolutely real.

Yuuri suddenly became hyperaware of his environment.  He wasn’t _hugging_ anyone, as far as he could tell.  He wasn’t touching anything except the sheets and the warm weight on his chest.

The warm weight on his chest.  At this point, warm probably equaled living.  Something alive was resting on his chest.

Yuuri took a moment to collect his courage, then, cracked one eye.  An arm.  A fair-skinned arm, blue veins glowing faintly beneath the surface, splayed diagonally across his chest.  The fingers attached to the hand attached to the arm rested just beneath his collar bone, brushing the sliver of skin showing above his t-shirt.

So, there was really another living, breathing person in bed with him.

The other end of the arm was attached to that person, the person was attached to a head of short silver hair resting a few inches away from Yuuri’s concrete pillow.

Viktor Nikiforov

Viktor Nikiforov was in bed with him – with Katsuki Yuuri.

Normally, in any other shocking situation, Yuuri would have to tell himself repeatedly not to panic in order to distract his mind from processing the situation.  This shock, though, was too great.  Viktor Nikiforov asleep in the same bed as him made absolutely no sense.  His mind could not process it at all.

Yuuri was just there, and Viktor was just there, lying on his stomach, the remainder of his limbs splayed across the bed like he was used to sleeping in a much larger one.  On the bedside table closest to Yuuri, sat his glasses, a glass of water, and a bottle of medicine.  They were just there as well.  Viktor had probably put them there, so there they stayed.

Yuuri rolled out from under the arm; it flopped soundlessly onto the bed.  He adjusted his glasses and swallowed two ibuprofen tablets along with the water.  He grabbed some cash out of his backpack and proceeded to walk out the door and into the hallway, leaving everything _there_ with Viktor, who was still _there_ lying on the bed and would be _there_ until he woke up without Yuuri.

No, he didn’t feel anxious at all.  He didn’t feel anything.

Not far from his room’s door stood two vending machines in a small alcove stemming from the hallway.  He used the cash in his hand to buy a bag of potato chips – the competition had ended; he could afford to divulge in some junk food.  Only when the stale grease smell from the opened bag hit his nose, could he feel his own hunger.  He inhaled the remainder of the chips in less than a minute, which left him with an empty plastic bag and a sticky hand.

He could just go back to his room – no, Viktor was _there_ . . . and he had left his room key inside the room, apparently.  He felt for his non-existent pockets in his pajama pants.

BAM BAM BAM

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri nearly fell over backwards, the loud voice behind him splitting through his pounding head.  He couldn’t process this, couldn’t make himself look in the direction of the noise.  Instead, his first instinct was to hide.  He slid into the dark space between the two vending machines, settled on the dirt covered floor, and pulled his knees to his chest.  The plastic bag crinkled as his hands shook.

BAM BAM BAM

“Yuuri!”

From his safe place between the vending machines, Yuuri realized that the loud noise was actually someone banging on a door.  He couldn’t see into the hallway, though.

The knocking sounded again.

“Yuuri, are you in there?”     

Yuuri’s stomach dropped at the sound of a door, his door, clicking open down the hallway.

“Good. I was going to get lunch and . . .” The voice from earlier paused midsentence.  Was that Celestino’s voice? “. . . Viktor Nikiforov?”

“Yes, that’s me.”  Yuuri wouldn’t mistake Viktor’s voice anywhere.  It sounded a tad grainier, though, than it had the day before, after the competition.

“I’m so sorry. I – I was sure this was Yuuri’s room.”

“Oh, it is.”

“ _Oh_.”  Celestino’s voice trailed off again.

_Oh my god_ , thought Yuuri, the panic he had avoided earlier finally settling in.

“But he seems to have – uh – disappeared for the moment,” Viktor’s voice supplied into the silence.  “I can have him call you when he gets back?”

“No, no – that’s not necessary.  Just tell him that I’m going out for lunch in an hour if he wants to come – of course, you can come along as well.”

Through his rising panic, Yuuri registered Celestino’s strained goodbye, then the door clicking shut.  Celestino walked right in front of the opening to the alcove without seeing Yuuri shaking between the vending machines.

Now what?  He couldn’t stay huddled in a corner for the remainder of his life, could he?  The only way to get back into his room was to knock on the door and have _Viktor Nikiforov_ let him in.  He would need some kind of excuse for where he had gone to in his pajamas.

Thus, Yuuri sat between the vending machines preventing the inevitable for – a while, he couldn’t tell how long.  He apparently had also left his phone in the room.

He didn’t have long, however, to ponder his ultimate fate in the world before the silence in the hallway broke, once again, to loud, almost angry footsteps.  Yuuri huddled further into his corner as the footsteps came closer and closer to the alcove.  They wouldn’t see him.  Celestino hadn’t seen him; this other person wouldn’t see him either.  They’d just keep walking.

Except that the footsteps came precisely to the front of the alcove and didn’t keep walking.  Silence ensued as Yuri Plisetsky, Junior Grand Prix Champion and bathroom patrol, cash in hand ready to buy his own bag of junk-food-unsuitable-for-figure-skaters, stared directly at Yuuri.

“Katsuki? – What the hell are you doing?” Yuri politely asked.  Within two more angry steps, he covered the remaining distance to the vending machines and violently kicked one with his foot.  He leaned into the space between them, towering over Yuuri, and fixed him with a penetrating stare, waiting for a reply.

Quivering wreck, Katsuki Yuuri, could make no reply.

“Whatever,” Yuri said, “I don’t care what you do, just don’t do it in front of me.  Go back to your room, and don’t let me see you again.” He stepped to the side, allowing Yuuri enough space to slip out from the corner if he could only move.  Yuri’s voice had been softer than he expected, but he still remained frozen in place.

Another minute-long stare down apparently reached the limit of Yuri’s patience.

“What the fuck, just go! Your room is like right there – right there!” He pointed down the hallway for emphasis.

“I-I can’t,” Yuuri finally gritted out.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“Viktor Nikiforov is in my room.”

“Ugh! I did not need to know that,” Yuri said, bringing his hands to his face and shaking his head. “That still doesn’t mean that you can’t go back to your room.  Come on.”  He grabbed Yuuri’s hand, the greasy one holding the bag, and began tugging.

“No! No, Yuri, you don’t understand.”  Yuuri tried to pull his hand free.  “I woke up, and Viktor was just there.  And I don’t remember.  I don’t remember how he got there – so I left, and I can’t go back.”  Why was he telling this to a teenager, again?  It had sounded much better in his head.

“Damn, Viktor really is an idiot, isn’t he? – Okay, okay,” Yuri sighed and paused.  “. . . I’ll run Viktor out of your room,” he said eventually, “so at least you won’t be stuck in the hallway.”

For the second time that morning, Yuuri found himself in shock.  Yuri Plisetsky was actually trying to help him.

He must have stared dumbly at Yuri for too long.

“Hey – uh – Viktor’s actually an okay guy.  I don’t think he meant any harm.  He’s just an idiot sometimes – most of the time.”

“I beg to differ,” Viktor’s voice issued from just down the hallway.  Yuri jumped at its proximity, as Viktor casually stepped into view.

“What the fuck, Viktor! Don’t do that!  And let Katsuki back in his room!”

“What do you think, Yuuri?” Viktor asked as he knelt down to Yuuri’s level, just in front of the vending machines.  “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

No, Yuuri did not think that Viktor Nikiforov was an idiot.  The only idiot in this situation was Yuuri himself.  He was still sitting on the floor, shaking like the idiot he was.

Yuri Plisetsky stepped between him and Viktor.

“I said back off.  Katsuki doesn’t want you around right now.  Go and get whatever the hell you left in his room, then go back to yours.”

Viktor peered at Yuuri from around the other Yuri’s leopard print jeans.  The teasing smile had fallen from his face.

“Yuuri, are you alright?”  Viktor’s voice climbed a few octaves on the last syllable.  “Do you really want me to leave?”

It took Yuuri, who was still shaking, a few seconds before he forced himself to nod his head forward, just slightly.

He hadn’t realized the expression on Viktor’s face could fall even further.    
“Okay, then, I’ll go get my things. – Here’s your room key?” Viktor held out the card to Yuuri.

“I’ll take it,” the other Yuri said as he snatched it.  “Katsuki,” he turned, “you stay here.  I’ll be back in a minute. – Come on Viktor!”  He began stomping down the hallway towards Yuuri’s room.  Viktor threw Yuuri one last glance over his shoulder.  Yuuri felt the blue, blue eyes scan over his entire frame; then, they were gone and he was alone.

Why had he just told Viktor Nikiforov to leave?  He couldn’t make sense of it.  Something good had finally happened on this disaster trip to Russia, and all he could do was hide.  Weak, weak, weak.  He had panicked, and now there was nothing he could do to take it back.

Soon enough, he heard a door click open.  One set of footsteps approached his alcove, while another set faded down the hallway in the opposite direction.  This time, the other Yuri succeeded in pulling Yuuri to his feet and dragging him into his room before abruptly leaving the way he came.

The sheets on the bed remained disturbed from where both himself and Viktor had slept on them.  He had finally ruined it, his last dream: meeting Viktor Nikiforov.  Yuuri kicked off his shoes, crawled back into bed, and buried his face in Viktor’s pillow, muffling his sobs.  He drifted between sleep and a wet pillow for an indeterminate amount of time.

Eventually, he decided he needed to know what time it was and moved to search for his phone, finding it charging beside the red armchair. 1:00 pm. He still had six more hours before he needed to be at the airport.  He had definitely missed Celestino’s lunch invitation.  He needed to get out, though.  He couldn’t sit in a white hotel room for six hours if he wanted to hold on to the last of his sanity. 

Yuuri threw on some sweats and a jacket before he grabbed his skates.  He knew that it was a longshot that he would be allowed into the competition complex to skate, but, at least, he would have somewhere to go and could pick up something to eat on the way back.

The outside of the “Skating Palace” loomed cold, blue, and deserted as he approached it, just like the ice it housed.  He walked directly up to the front doors, pushing in on them, and, to his surprise, they opened.  Nothing impeded his path to the rink, no officials or locked doors.  As soon as he saw the white sheet of ice, he let out a breath.  It was completely empty, white, and perfect.  The lights had been turned off, but more than enough light streamed in through the windows, casting a blue glow onto the entire stadium.

He dropped his bag and laced up his skates.  As he stepped onto the ice, he could already feel his nerves calming.  He circled the rink a few times, then built up speed for a jump, a small single jump, but one large enough to remind him of his pounding headache.  He still craved a workout, though.

He glided to the center of the rink and struck the starting pose for a program, not one of his own, but Viktor’s free skate from that season.  He always learned at least one of Viktor’s programs every year, if only to calm his nerves and remind him of home and Ice Castle.  Out of the two programs, the free skate was by far his favorite that year.  The sweeping opera music filled his head as he glided through the opening sequence.  He made the first jump a single, the second as well.  His blades flashed in the blue light as he powered through the step sequence.  He extended his arm as his gaze swept across the room, searching for the other person in the song -only to glimpse the dark outline of an actual other person watching him.

It was okay.  No reason to panic.  This person couldn’t fault him for anything.  No one had told him that he couldn’t skate; no one had blocked his entrance to the rink.  As long as they just watched, Yuuri shouldn’t mind.

He finished the step sequence and prepared for his next jump.  His headache had lessened, so he decided to make it a double.  As he lifted into the first rotation, he caught another glimpse of the figure watching him.  More sunlight had streamed through the window, illuminating the figure’s _silver hair_.  _Viktor._   Yuuri completely missed the landing of the jump, his skate sliding out from under him with a _shiing_ followed by a deep thud as his hip hit the ice.

“Yuuri!” Viktor’s voice carried across the rink.

Yuuri sat on the ice for a few seconds in shock.  He had just failed a _double_ in front of Viktor Nikiforov in his own program.

“I’m okay,” he called weakly as he climbed up from the ice.  He found Viktor hovering not far away.  Viktor reached out a hand, as if to touch Yuuri’s shoulder, but immediately pulled it back.

“I’m sorry I startled you.  Are you really okay?” he said.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  He would have a bruise the next day, but it was a familiar pain.  He fell often after all.

“That was my program,” Viktor said.  He continued to keep his distance.  The blue in his eyes seemed to magnify in the pale rink light.  Yuuri’s face burned.

“I’m s-sorry,” Yuuri said because what else was there to say?  He had just failed to skate a weakened version of Viktor’s own program in front of him.

But Viktor shook his head.  “No, I’m the one who should be saying that.”  He ran a hand through his silver hair.  “No – you looked beautiful just then.  When I skate, well, that’s all I do: I skate.  When you skate, you dance.  It’s filled with expression.  You looked like you really were trying to find that other person.”

“The man in the song is supposed to be lonely.  I can relate to that, I guess.  That’s all.”  Yuuri looked at the ice as he answered.  The blue in Viktor’s eyes had become too intense to look at any longer.     

They stood in silence for a moment, neither moving.  Yuuri’s hip and head throbbed in tandem.

“Ah,” Viktor’s voice echoed around the rink, “do you mind if I stay and skate with you?”

No, Yuuri didn’t mind, not at all.  He had only dreamed of this particular scenario at most five times . . . within the past month.

“Can you show me that step sequence again?” Viktor asked.  “I think your version is better than mine.”

Yuuri had no idea what was different about the step sequence he had just performed and the one that Viktor normally skated in competition, but those blue, blue eyes were searching for his gaze.  He thought of the disappointment evident on Viktor’s face earlier that day.  He didn’t want to see that again.  Maybe, this was his second chance.

“Okay,” he said.

And that was how Yuuri Katsuki, average Japanese figure skater, found himself literally skating on the same ice at the same time as Viktor Nikiforov.  He ran through the sequence one more time alone, then twice more with Viktor mirroring his every move.  Once Viktor had tired of the step sequence, they skated through the entire program together, side by side, moves flowing together, distancing themselves to complete the jumps, which they downgraded to singles for safety.  Yuuri found himself smiling between stealing glimpses of Viktor, who appeared nearly ethereal skating in the dim lighting, his silver hair fanning out as he moved.  The ending sequence pulled them together again, closer with every spin and turn until they were just an arm’s length apart.  Yuuri struck his final pose with his arms wrapped around himself and his gaze pointed towards the dark lights on the ceiling.  He startled when something came to rest on his shoulders and looked up to find Viktor, standing nearly nose-to-nose with him.  Yuuri felt his face and ears flush with heat.  He had also seen this vision before in his dreams.

“Yuuri, can you skate it again, alone, while I watch?”  Viktor didn’t seem affected at all.  Yuuri could taste his breath as he spoke, the intense blue gaze holding him in place as he nodded his head.  He had more than enough stamina for another run-through.  Now that his headache had dissipated, he could attempt to upgrade some of the jumps to triples.  He couldn’t even say that he was nervous, after already running through the program with Viktor by his side.

As Viktor exited the rink, Yuuri grabbed his water bottle from the barrier and drained half of it before skating to the center of the ice and striking the starting pose.

The grand opera music filled his head once again, loud and dramatic, so very _Viktor Nikiforov._   As he glided through the opening sequence, Yuuri looked to the man standing alone in the blue rink light.  He thought he was beginning to understand.  He could feel the disconnect between this Viktor and the song.  No one could be expected to be this grand all the time, not even Viktor Nikiforov, he supposed.  Yet, Yuuri still felt that the grandeur of the music was justified by the desperate plea of one man to another, just as lonely as himself.  Yuuri knew that loneliness; Vicchan’s death the most recent reminder of the threat of, one day, being left completely alone.  Viktor, though, had he ever actually felt that lonely, that desperate?  The hazy image of the gray haired man curled up in a red armchair, cold and small, came to Yuuri’s mind.  Maybe, Viktor was lonely after all.  Yuuri didn’t know how or why, but maybe so.  He could see Viktor’s free skate in the light of a final desperate plea to the audience.  And then, what?  It was just a skating program; no one would actually “answer” it. 

After that week, Yuuri couldn’t hope to ever skate at the same level as Viktor, but, if this program really was Viktor’s plea to everyone watching him, Yuuri could answer it.  He could help Viktor in this small way because he felt that desperation as well.

His blades scratched and chopped the ice as he completed another triple in the program, a lutz.  Instead of sweeping his arms out to the audience during the choreographic sequence, he reached to the point, again and again, where he knew Viktor would be standing.  As he struck the final pose, instead of looking towards the ceiling, he gazed directly at Viktor, attempting to intuit his reaction without his glasses.

Yuuri broke his pose and skated towards Viktor.  The other man appeared to be shaking, both hands covering his mouth.  When Yuuri finally reached him, though, all evidence of this reaction had disappeared, replaced by a perfectly still figure with a small smile on his face.

“Yuu-ri” was all that Viktor said, voice breaking in the middle, accent thick, drawing out the syllables.

Yuuri’s heart nearly exploded when Viktor reached into the rink and pulled him into a fierce hug, one hand threading through his hair, the other pressing into his back, almost pulling him directly over the barrier.  The only sound that Yuuri could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears as he waited with his nose smashed into Viktor’s shoulder.

Two hundred frantic heartbeats later, Viktor finally released him, but only pulled away enough for Yuuri to see the blue eyes once more.  For his part, Yuuri had been stricken silent, and, apparently, so too, had Viktor, seeing as he didn’t say anything.  His eyes stared right back at Yuuri for a long moment before briefly flicking down, then back up again.

“Can I – kiss you?” Viktor breathed into the blue silence surrounding them.

Yuuri had only heard that line a million and one times in his dreams.  Maybe he was dreaming after all.  His stomach sank at the thought.

“Are you real?” he said.

Viktor’s head tilted just the slightest centimeter to the left, a few strands of silver falling into one eye.  “Why wouldn’t I be real?” He paused for a moment.  “If this is a pickup line, you don’t need it, Yuuri.”  A smile spread across Viktor’s entire face, nearly turning heart-shaped.  Yuuri could feel one spreading across his own face as well.

Viktor’s hand reached up to cup one of Yuuri’s cheeks, his thumb dangerously close to the edge of Yuuri’s bottom lip.

“Just one kiss,” Viktor repeated, “it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

And, just like that, the moment broke for Yuuri. He flinched backwards, out of Viktor’s touch.

“It might not mean anything to you, but it – it would mean something to me,” Yuuri said, so quietly that he wasn’t sure if Viktor would hear or not.  He grabbed his glasses off the barrier and began to skate toward the actual exit from the ice.

Of course, it didn’t mean anything.  Nearly twenty-four hours earlier, Viktor hadn’t even known that Yuuri was a skater.  Why would he care now?  Yuuri was just a fan, that was all, a fan who had gotten ahead of himself after only a few hours.  He shouldn’t be acting like this.  He knew it would happen – but – he had forgotten.

“Wait – Yuuri!”  Viktor’s voice echoed behind him, as his footsteps quickly tapped along outside the barrier.

Yuuri really had just rejected Viktor Nikiforov. He hadn’t meant to.  The entire day had just been filled with a stream of surprises, hadn’t it?  To reject Viktor Nikiforov, a few hours ago, Yuuri would have thought impossible.  He couldn’t process it.

He slipped on his blade guards as he stepped off the ice.  He vaguely registered Viktor’s presence at his side as he sat down on a bench to unlace his skates.  The clatter of the skates only seemed to add to the silence of the rink as he pulled them off.  He startled, shrinking away, at a faint tap on his shoulder, head turning reflexively.

The expression on Viktor’s face mirrored the one he had seen earlier that day, the blue light enhancing the effect even more so.  It wasn’t so much the actual expression, though, but the absence of the constant smile that was always there that ingrained the image in Yuuri’s memory.  Not the pristine smile that was present for every televised interview, not the heart-shaped one that Yuuri had seen earlier, nothing.  There was nothing _there_.  Viktor was there beside him in the silent rink with nothing.

Viktor was really just _there._

“I’m sorry.”  The words slipped out of Yuuri’s mouth before he could stop them.  “I’m sorry.  Please – uh – please don’t be – sad over someone like me.”

“No.”  Viktor tentatively reached again for Yuuri’s shoulder.  Yuuri didn’t flinch away this time. “I didn’t mean it like that.  I didn’t want you to – I didn’t want – I – just – it means something to me too.  Is there anything I can do – to convince you of that?”

Yuuri was once again struck by the contrast between the Viktor Nikiforov he had always known and the one _there_ sitting beside him.  His voice sounded hesitant but void of really any emotion.  It shouldn’t be like that.

And it was this voice that was asking Yuuri for anything he wanted?  All Yuuri had ever wanted was to compete against Viktor and to be acknowledged as a skater at the same level, but that was something he would never _ask_ for.  What did Yuuri want?  He wanted to see a smile on Viktor’s face; he wanted his voice to be filled with emotion.  But, he didn’t know how to get there.

“Can we – can we talk?” Yuuri asked.

The shadows shifted on Viktor’s face.  “Yeah, we can – talk,” he said, one corner of his mouth quirking up the tiniest amount.

And so, Viktor sat down beside Yuuri on the bench, and they talked.  To his own surprise, Yuuri found himself speaking first.

“So, how did you get into the rink?”

“I made a few calls.  They let me in easily; I’m Viktor Nikiforov after all.”  Viktor did not look at Yuuri as he spoke, instead, focusing his gaze towards the ice.

“Well – uh – thanks for letting me in.  It – means a lot.”

“It meant a lot to me too.” Viktor turned his blue gaze towards Yuuri.  “Yuuri, I want to tell you something.  Can you keep a secret?”

Yuuri nodded his head.

“I think I might retire this year,” Viktor said.

Yuuri’s eyes grew wide even before Viktor had finished the sentence. Viktor was watching him for a reaction, he knew, so he tried to keep his face expressionless.  He only succeeded partially.  Viktor retiring?  Yuuri knew that Viktor would retire eventually, but, that year?  Why?  Viktor had been in top form all season.

“I haven’t told anybody that I’ve been seriously considering it.  I just – I needed to tell someone,” Viktor said.

“Can I ask why?” Yuuri murmured.

“I, well, I love skating.  I’ve always loved skating, but I just – can’t _feel_ it anymore.”  Viktor folded his hands in his lap.  He glanced down at them, then back up at Yuuri.  “But, last night, Yuuri, I felt something.  I felt – happy.”  A smile finally broke over Viktor’s lips, but his eyes remained impossibly sad.  “And Yuri said – the other Yuri – that you didn’t remember why I was there this morning.  I was just worried about you.  I couldn’t just leave you there alone, not after everything.”

Yuuri continued to stare at Viktor’s sad smile as he realized that he had absolutely no idea what Viktor was talking about.  _Don’t panic_ , he told himself.  He had come so far; he couldn’t panic now.  The last time he had seen Viktor before waking up that morning had indeed been at the banquet the night before – but – he hadn’t talked to Viktor then.  He had only glimpsed Viktor across the room, his silver hair and a fine suit, before he had made his way over to the champagne table.  Then – and then – and then – that’s where the blank spot in his memory began, his next memory being that of the white hotel room and Viktor asleep in the red chair.  Yuuri forced himself to face the fact that he had been ignoring all day: he couldn’t remember the entire night.  Anything could have happened, and he would never really know.

Yuuri fisted his hands into his jacket to prevent them from shaking. 

“Yuuri?” Viktor called.

“I don’t remember,” Yuuri said.

“I know; Yuri told me you didn’t.  Why are you shaking?”  He paused.  “ _Oh_ , nothing – nothing _happened_.  You know that – Yuuri?”

“That’s not – I,” Yuuri hesitated, Viktor’s smile had already vanished, “I don’t remember anything at all,” he finished, pathetically.

Viktor just stared at him, blue eyes narrowed.

“I – I don’t remember talking to anyone at the banquet, just my coach, then waking up this morning.”

“You don’t remember anything?”   
“Nothing.”

“Oh.”  Viktor turned away from him then, gaze directed towards the ice once more.  Yuuri looked to the ice as well and wished he could freeze himself into it.  He watched Viktor out of the corner of his eye.  The pale skin, gray hair, and one visible blue eye perfectly frozen on the bench beside him.

Yuuri wanted to cry.

Viktor moved before he had the chance, however, just the slightest tilt of his head in Yuuri’s direction.  His hand disappeared into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“Can I help you remember?” he said.

“Okay,” Yuuri whispered, while knowing it was useless.  He wondered what had made Viktor care about it at all.

“I have some pictures from last night,” Viktor said, handing Yuuri his phone.  Yuuri looked down at the screen to see . . . himself, face flushed with alcohol, almost too close to the camera.  He was holding an entire bottle of champagne?  He flipped through photo after photo of himself rather quickly, not needing to see any more of drunk Yuuri than absolutely necessary, until the pictures of himself became pictures of himself and _Viktor_.  They were dancing.  He watched as they slowly moved closer together with each photo until he stopped on one particular picture.  In that picture, he held Viktor as they danced together.  That same bright smile that Yuuri had been longing to see for hours covered Viktor’s face and touched his eyes, gaze directed at the Yuuri in the photo, a Yuuri that he wouldn’t have recognized without the context of the other pictures.  That Yuuri looked . . . happy, Viktor had said _happy_.  In that photo, he had been happy.  When was the last time he had felt the way that he looked in that picture?

A raindrop fell onto the phone screen, blurring the pixels.  Odd, since they were indoors.  A warm palm brushed at his cheek.  He turned to see Viktor still watching him.

“Yuuri, what do I do?” he asked.

Viktor had asked Yuuri earlier for anything.  Yuuri thought he was finally ready to answer.

“I want to dance again,” Yuuri said, “like in this picture.  Can we dance again? – another day?”  Then, he could see Viktor again, another day, borrowed time.

“Yes, I’d like that.”  Viktor smiled; it reached his blue eyes.

Yuuri smiled too.

Then, his stomach growled.

“Would you like to find something to eat now?” Viktor asked, his smile turned smug, but Yuuri found he didn’t care.

“Sure.”

As they stepped out of the Ice Palace, Viktor locked the doors.  They found a small warm café not far from the hotel.  Viktor convinced Yuuri to order a pirozhki.  He bit through the warm dough and spiced meat as they sat at the table near the window, watching the traffic flow down the street.  Katsudon was better, but, Yuuri had to admit, pirozhki was good.  While they ate, he flipped through the remainder of the banquet pictures on Viktor’s phone.

“I pole danced? With Chris?”

“ _Oh yes_.  How did you learn to _move_ like that?”

“Phichit conned me into attending classes with him in Detroit.”

Viktor’s bright laugh carried through the café.  Yuuri wished his entire free skate could be choreographed to that laugh.

“You have three thousand pictures of your dog saved on your phone?”

The heart-shaped smile reappeared as Viktor detailed Yuuri through at least a hundred photos of Makkachin.

“Do you know that you have two different smiles?”

“Really?” Viktor paused, “Which one do you like the best?”

“The one I see right now.”

“Cute, Yuuri, cute.  Do _you_ have a dog?”

“I . . . used to have one.”

“What was his name?”

“Vicchan.”

Viktor was surprisingly easy to talk to.  The sun had almost fallen from the sky before Yuuri picked up his phone again, only to find five missed calls and several texts from Celestino.  He should have been meeting his coach in front of the hotel to head to the airport at that very moment.

They fled the warmth of the café. Viktor reached for Yuuri’s hand as they crossed the streets.  Yuuri called Celestino to tell him to go on ahead.  He’d meet him at the airport.  When they finally reached the hotel, they found Yuri Plisetsky sitting in a chair in the lobby.

Or, rather, he found them.

“Oi, Viktor!  What are you doing with Katsuki?  We’ve already been through this twice!” he shouted.

“Thanks, Yuri,” Yuuri said, smiling, cutting Viktor off before he began, “it’s okay now.”

Yuri threw them one more look before they passed him completely.  “Whatever, idiots.”

As the elevator ascended, Yuuri realized that he was going to have to say goodbye to Viktor and that he would have to do it soon.  He wondered if Viktor would continue riding the elevator up to his own floor.

But, Viktor didn’t.  He exited the silver box with Yuuri.

“I’ll help you pack,” he said.

They packed Yuuri’s clothes and costumes in record time, even though Viktor insisted that they fold everything properly, and rushed back down to the lobby.  Yuuri thought Viktor would leave him as he stepped out the front doors of the hotel.  But, he didn’t.

“I’ll ride with you so you won’t be alone,” he said.

They held hands in the taxi, as Yuuri watched Sochi slip by his window.

Yuuri thought Viktor would leave him when he met Celestino at luggage check.  But he didn’t.

“I’ll wait with you and help you check in,” he said.

Celestino didn’t say anything.

Viktor walked behind him as they approached security.  Once Yuuri went through security, that would be it.  He wouldn’t see Viktor again.  He had asked for another day, but the current day had been borrowed time already.  Viktor would forget.  Yuuri wouldn’t remind him.

He turned backwards to say goodbye and . . . saw a teardrop fall from fine gray lashes.

“Viktor – why are you crying?”

Viktor didn’t answer.  Another tear slid down his check.  Yuuri raised his hand and wiped it away.  The blue, blue eyes merely gazed back at him for a moment.  Without warning, Viktor’s arms crushed him into a hug, burying his face in Yuuri’s shoulder.  He shook in Yuuri’s arms, wetness soaking into Yuuri’s shirt collar.  Yuuri almost cried as well, but his tears had already been exhausted for the day.

They stood there together until Viktor quit shaking.  Then, they stood there a little longer in a comfortable silence and warmth.  Yuuri pulled back just enough to see the blue eyes again.

And Viktor was quite visibly staring at his lips.

And he wasn’t a hallucination.

He was really there, staring at Yuuri’s lips.

Yuuri brought a hand up again to cup Viktor’s check.  A faint color appeared briefly there.  If Yuuri hadn’t been so exhausted, he might have been more self-conscious.  But, he was tired, and he was never going to see Viktor again, and he wanted so badly to see that faint color one more time.

So, he traced his thumb lightly along the edge of Viktor’s bottom lip and watched the blue eyes dilate and the pale cheeks and nose blush to a warm rose color.

And Yuuri had never kissed anyone before – not like he desired in that moment.

But Viktor was there, and he was real.

So, Yuuri closed the small remaining distance between them and kissed Viktor anyway.

And immediately realized that he had no idea what he was doing.

But, this time, there was no reason to panic, absolutely none at all.

Because Viktor knew exactly what he was doing

And he did it well,

Until Yuuri’s lips felt hot and raw and his knees began to give way beneath him.

He wrapped his arms tighter around Viktor’s neck and hung in the space between oblivion and pleasure until Viktor finally pulled away.

“You kissed me,” he said, blue, blue eyes open and wide, the remainder of his face unreadable.

“Sorry if it was bad,” Yuuri whispered.

Then, Viktor Nikiforov looked directly at him, Katsuki Yuuri, and said, “No, that’s the best kiss I’ve ever had.”  And he smiled, heart-shape and all.

_That’s the best kiss I’ve ever had._

And Yuuri felt like collapsing and crying all over again, but –  

– But all he did was smile, a smile so wide that Viktor reached up to cup his hands over Yuuri’s cheeks.  Yuuri would never have believed it, except for the solid-real-not-hallucination-induced man in front of him. 

Cameras flashed around them.  He had just kissed Viktor Nikiforov in public.

But none of that really mattered.

“Miss your flight, Yuuri,” Viktor said.

“What?” Yuuri said; he must be missing something.

“Miss. Your. Flight.” Viktor repeated each word separately.

“I-I can’t afford another ticket if I miss this one.”

“I’ll buy you a new ticket. Miss your flight, Yuuri, and stay with me.”  Yuuri turned back towards Celestino, who was smiling.

“Just one more day.  Please stay with me,” Viktor whispered, touching his forehead to Yuuri’s.

Yuuri looked up into the blue, blue eyes, his hand in the soft gray hair.  And it was real.

It was all real.

He wanted to hold on to it and never let go.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll stay with you.”


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Epilogue!!

Yuuri roused from his sleep and opened his eyes to another too white hotel room, eerily similar to the one he had stayed at in Sochi for the GPF.  Except that, this time, he was in Tokyo for the World Championships.  His head ached, but he could remember every detail of the party from the night before, which was a good thing.  A very good thing.  His eyes were drawn to the silver medal, lying on the desk near the window, sparkling in the early morning sun.

“Are you awake, золотце моё?” Viktor’s voice rumbled, close and deep.

“Mmm,” he murmured, and buried his face once more into the warm chest beside him.

“Don’t pretend,” Viktor continued, “I saw what you were looking at.  What do you have to say for yourself, hmm?”

“Oh, come on, Viktor – it matches your hair very nicely.”

“Ah – insulting my hair first thing in the morning!  How will I ever forgive you?”

“It’s not an insult!  They’re both beautiful.”

“Oh – and where’s yours?” Viktor pretended as if he hadn’t heard Yuuri. “Right here around your neck!” He pulled the medal out from under Yuuri’s arm.  “You left it on all night.”

“You wanted me to!”

Viktor held the medal just to the side of Yuuri’s face. “Oh well,” he said, “I’m afraid this particular shade of gold clashes with the flecks in your eyes – gasp.  I guess I’ll just have to take it.” He began lifting the medal over Yuuri’s head.

Yuuri scrambled to grab at his stolen prize.  “No, Viktor, give it back,” he whined, “You don’t deserve the gold: you just said the word _gasp_ out loud.”

“I know – gasp.”

They struggled for a few moments before Viktor pulled Yuuri into a kiss.  Though, neither of them could stop laughing long enough to make it a proper one.  Yuuri thought again of the night before.  How Viktor’s steps had flowed into his own as they danced under the string lights.  He had been happy.  He was still happy.  Affection curled inside him as Viktor rubbed his silky silver head into his chest.

In a few minutes, they would need to get out of bed and repack for their train ride to Hatsetsu.  Yuuri would introduce Viktor to his family.  He was excited to finally see them again after five long years abroad.

They were both excited to see his family’s reaction to the rings on their fingers.

Viktor was personally excited to see the cherry blossoms . . .

and the hot springs.

The end


End file.
